Stars Over Zorro

The night was inky black and chilly. The stars were out. I was sitting on a wooden bench, outside the Zorro squat in Leipzig, Germany. Getting some air into my lungs, getting a moment to myself, clearing my head. Trying to catch myself in time and space, feeling a little bit on the edge of the world.

The day had cracked in Berlin, looking up at an anti-fascist banner on the wall. It was early morning when I hazily woke up in my sleeping bag, coughing from all the smoke that filled the Kopi the night before. Cramps had wrenched me awake and I felt my insides twist. I got up, and soon blood flowed in chunks into a strange German toilet. Menstruation had come quick and painful, and had joined forces with my hangover and the lack of sleep. I almost puked on the floor between my legs as I felt the contractions tighten around my spinal cord.

We said groggy but sincere goodbyes to the old German punk who had taken us in, and I pulled my wool jacket closer around me as we went out into the day. Walking back to the squat, I watched my boots on the cracked cement through plastic sunglasses, telling the sun to go to hell. I felt something nasty creeping up at me, and my throat burned. But I didn’t care that I felt like shit. I had pushed myself through the edge of night into dawn. It had been the Kopi Anniversary, and a glorious second show of tour.

That night, miles away to the south, out in the courtyard at Zorro, the wind was nice and crisp as I tried to relax for a minute, looking at the stars. THE PROFIT$ had just finished playing, and my voice had gone to hell and sounded like shit. Something was making my throat shred, and it was disappointing to be hoarse after traveling so far to play. But the show was good otherwise. The punks were fun and welcoming, and the other bands rocked, especially ACTAO DIRECTA from Brazil and NEURON from Germany.

It was great to see Scaba, former kick ass singer of PROVOKED, there at the show selling all kinds of interesting alcoholic shots. I had a few that made me breathe fire, trying to kill whatever was stuck in my throat, as she told me the story of how she moved to Leipzig from Minneapolis. After visiting for few weeks in Germany to help book Provoked’s European tour last year, she never wanted to move back! I couldn’t blame her. Zorro seemed almost enchanted. The building was an abandoned factory for a long time, until squatters started living there. Over several years, many people worked hard to create a place full of life and humming with activity. I kept getting turned around, going up and down the large main staircase from the concert room where we played with its own bar, through a smaller room and bar in the basement to get outside, or upstairs to the kitchen and sleeping room past rooms that looked like bicycle repair shops and artist spaces. There was a lot going on. And it was cool to see the handwriting of several people we knew on the walls, as everywhere there was graffiti from bands and travelers visiting over the years.

After the show was over, a few people and the bands spending the night went upstairs to the kitchen. There was a long wooden table, elevated and built into the floor, with raised benches surrounding it, and bottles of beer for everyone. It was good to hang out with ACTAO DIRECTA and the rest of the crew that night, talking about tour and life.

However, there was a moment that made me pause. I was in the dormitory room and put my sleeping bag on a cot, then went back out into the kitchen. All at once, I saw all the band members from the night, a large group of punks sitting around the table, and suddenly I saw that they were all men. Except for me, of course. I was the only band member with a clit at the table. What th’ hell? It happened almost at every show we played on tour. Why weren’t more women on stage? Fuckin’a!

The night went on, and eventually, we all went to sleep…or tried to. There was Lucho, el monstro, snoring loud enough to wake the dead! His roars shook the entire room, he wasn’t a man, he was a snoring devil!! Damn!

Welcome to Czech Republic

As I mentioned, Jon Active was kind and generous enough to book our tour. Up ‘til this point, Sloma (who was driving us in his van) knew exactly where he was going. It was familiar territory. Our Monday show in Most Vtelno, Czech Republic, was the first show that we had to rely on directions and maps to get there. Jon had forwarded us all the information provided by the show organizers, and a few were vague, to say the least. I remember the email saying something like, “Don’t worry, Most is a small town, so it will be easy to find.” Ha! This was only the very beginning of the great adventure forthwith known as, “getting really, really lost somewhere in Europe with four amazed American punks who only speak only bad English and worse Spanish, and two Polish punks who speak bad English, excellent Polish (especially swearing), some German and a tad of French.” I could be wrong. I could only pick up the Polish swearing after I had heard it enough times! The bad English on both parties is all I’m sure of. The map we were given was even more vague than the directions. It looked like five lines with an arrow pointing to a dot in the middle. That was where we were supposed to go! By this point, I was sick and a mess and just thankful that I didn’t have to drive.

Anyway, hours later, after cruising through the Czech countryside at night, with much cursing and confusion, and looking at the stick and arrow map, we finally made it to Za Vraty. The place was an old tea factory we were told, now holding community events, and the punks were glad we finally showed up! By the time we got there, I was so happy and delirious I almost fell out of the van. My voice was totally gone, curses and all, which was again very disappointing. However, there were three great things about the show.

For one, I had my first Turkish coffee, which is a big moment in a coffee drinker’s life. It is the equivalent to a hiker climbing Mt. Fuji or Mt. Everest. It’s intense. Unfortunately, at the time, I had no idea what I was getting into. I was not prepared. I was used to everything from beautiful take out deli espressos in paper cups to bitter gas station coffee pots, but not this. The friendly woman at the bar handed me a small coffee, in a clear glass with a spoon. It looked like instant coffee, with the grinds floating on top, which I saw often enough traveling in Central America. So, I took a seat, stirred the coffee well, and took a big gulp–coffee grinds and all. Now, that’s strong. The grinds didn’t dissolve, so I stirred again–and took another big gulp. On tour I haven’t found a coffee yet I couldn’t drink so I wasn’t dismayed. This particular coffee was just chunkier and the grinds stuck between my teeth.

Sloma sat across the table from me, looking at me like I had gone mad.

“What?” I asked.

“No, this is Turkish coffee,” he explained. “You wait for the coffee grinds to settle on the bottom of the glass. Then, you drink the clear liquid on top.”

“Oh. That makes sense.” Good to know.

DISEASE from Spain played and I thought they rocked. Reminded me of the old school hardcore that I grew up with. Also, they had an entire group of people they were traveling with who were fun to meet. We just had on tour with us the mighty Lucho, el monster, who snores away your very soul! (You rock!)

And of course, the third and best thing about the show was the punks and organizers who made it happen. After driving around lost in what seems the middle of the world for hours, having a few people show up to a Monday night DIY show and giving us a chance, a warm welcome, warm food and a show, made a big difference to a touring band. Thanks so much!

Good Luck Tour 2004

Our good friend Nina traveled out to Most from Prague by bus, and was let out on the highway. She hiked for about an hour on an unlit road in the middle of the Czech countryside to make it out to the show (and still arrived before we did). It had been a year since she moved out of Boston, and it was great to see her. The very least we could do was drive her back to the city so she could make it to work tomorrow. Plus, we were all welcome to stay at her apartment, and it would give us more time to hang out on our day off. The plan seemed reasonable, and off we went.

This was our first big mistake of tour, going to Prague. Ha!

The tour gods were laughing! Like sailors listening to the Sirens and blissfully unaware of their impending doom, we enjoyed Tuesday afternoon taking in the sights of the old city. Like everyone else visiting Prague, we walked by the gothic and beautiful Charles Bridge with the Vltava river snaking below and the castle on the hill, and went through the open market which sold everything under the sun.

It was a fine, glorious day.

I usually don’t buy things on tour, but in one of the many vender booths a small blue glass bottle with a metal top caught my attention, as a gift for Meredith, my kick ass sister. While I was counting out my korunas in the crowded souvenir shack, a miniature wooden doll hanging on the wall caught my eye. It was a model of a Russian “matryoshka,” or babushka doll, the kind that open up and get successively smaller. This tiny, cheap doll was on a key chain, not much more than a little piece of hurriedly painted wood, but very cute.

A moment later out in the plaza I held the doll on the key chain up towards the sky, showing it to Adam, Rich, Brian, Lucho, Nina and her friend. I happily proclaimed, “Just what we needed! Our good luck charm for tour!”

Smiling, all of us in a good mood, I attached the damn thing to my belt and we began walking back to the van. The Sirens were singing loud and clear.

A half hour later, we were back at the parking lot where Sloma’s van was parked. It was still the middle of the afternoon, and the place was busy with traffic and people walking through. Rich got in, and a moment later said, “Hey, where is my bag? Did someone move it?”

He seemed worried. I got in the van too, and noticed my bag was missing, as well.

“Did someone move the bags?” I asked. By this time Rich was plowing through the bags and gear in the back with gaining speed. Everything was the same as we had left it only a couple of hours earlier, all the gear was fine, the van looked fine–except our bags were missing.

“Oh shit.” Rich said, final like, and pissed off. “It’s not here.”

At this point, all of us were searching through the van, moving everything. “What do you mean, it’s not here?” Adam asked incredulously, trying to be helpful.

“It’s not fucking here. Someone must have stolen it.” Rich said, in that intensely threatening but calm way that only a truly angry and repressed Bostonian can pull off well.

“Shit. My bag is gone too,” Adam said.

“The side door was open when I got here,” someone said.

This was absolutely, by all means, the very worst moment of tour. I will never forget the look on Rich’s face. He started looking around the parking lot for someone to kill. At least the van and gear were fine. We were extremely lucky bastards in that regard. Other bands have not been so lucky! As it was, an unwise choice to leave the van unattended for only a couple of hours, in the middle of the day, cost us Adam and Rich’s day bags, and my two bags. Everything I had brought on tour, except for thankfully my guitar, was now gone. The only thing I had with me was what I was wearing at the moment. A pair of black long shorts, striped knee socks, and two black t-shirts. My favorite clothes, including the sweatshirt with all the patches I’ve had for years, my studded vest with the WITCH HUNT patch, my tour journal, and even my wool jacket was gone. And, as the afternoon wore on, I could already feel it getting colder as we stood in the parking lot. Much worse, I had left my wallet in my day bag, along with my passport. Oh, and all of my money too. Even the money I was hiding in one bag in case my wallet was stolen. Fuck! Adam and Rich also had their passports in their bags. Gone. Stolen in a heartbeat in downtown Prague in the middle of the day.

Our tour came suddenly to a screeching, grinding halt. We weren’t going anywhere.

Now, before you wise-ass punks on bulletin boards start thinking how this would never happen to you, think again. It was a mistake that nobody was watching the van for that moment. We fucked up. Shitty things happen. And for us, now we know better. Take this story as a warning.

Beware of devil dolls in Prague!

Ransom End Notes

>La Rivolta! is happening in Boston on March 5-6 in celebration of International Women’s Day 2005. The weekend will feature activist workshops, food, and two shows with some of my favorite bands, including BEHIND ENEMY LINES, WITCH HUNT, THE PROFIT$ (of course) and even COJOBA from Puerto Rico. I can’t wait! I think every punk scene in the United States needs a show celebrating women’s radical activism, solidarity and music, at LEAST once a year. I will let you know how it goes. Thanks again to CLITfest ’04 for so much inspiration. At the moment, the organizing for the weekend is keeping me and the La Rivolta! collective busy. The bands and more information can be found at www.larivolta.org.

>This is the third segment in my attempt to write a novel (ha!) about THE PROFIT$ European tour that happened in October of 2004. Once again, with feeling, George Bush can go fuck himself.

>Check out THE PROFIT$ new discography at www.theprofits.org. Maybe you missed it the first ten times I mentioned it. Oh well, it took us five years to make all that noise!

> Brother Blue is an eighty-year old storyteller I know from the cable access station. He wears all blue clothing and has a blue butterfly painted on his cheek. Although he looks like a magician and a freak, he is amazing and famous at what he does. He has a television show where he talks for an hour, telling a story with his words and body, and it is usually gripping. Blue, as we call him, has traveled the world several times telling stories in the traditional way about his own life and African American heritage. He is a poet and an odd but very honest and open man.

He came into the station and looked at me the other day and said, “Erika, what is going on with you? You look different. I think you are becoming more of yourself.” His statement struck a cord with me. Change is good but can be hard. Thanks to all the friends recently who stayed up late drinking whiskey talking about life, called to say “hello” when I was feeling blue, answered my nagging questions and stood by me when I felt like I was losing my head. That’s what friends are for. Thanks so much. You rock!

>First person to send me a good fanzine gets something free from Propaganda Machine. How’s that for propaganda? Seriously, send me something that will tickle my brain to: Erika Ransom/ PO Box 391273/ Cambridge, MA 02139/ USA.

In Solidarity and Sisterhood, Erika